Second Chances
by pgrabia
Summary: Written for Sick!Wilsonfest on LJ.  House goes looking for Wilson and what he finds changes everything. H/W slash. Angst,drama,romance,sick!Wilson,sick!House. Warning: Adult concepts, coarse language, gory violence, alcohol & drug use. Christmas fic.


Title: **Second Chances **  
Author: pgrabia  
Prompt: Written for the sick!Wilson fest. Winter/Christmas Theme #14 – During the hospital Christmas party which Cuddy forces House to attend, Wilson goes to his office to get ibuprofen for a headache and doesn't come back.

Pairing: H/C but ending H/W slash  
Rating: NC-17 (to be safe) – angst, drama, romance.  
Word Count: 2,200 approx.  
Summary: House hunts for Wilson after the oncologist leaves a fundraising gala midway through and what he discovers changes everything.

Warning: **General spoiler for all seasons including all of season 7 thus far. Contains sexual concepts and descriptions, drug and alcohol use, violence and coarse language. Reader discretion advised.**

**~H/W~**

Dr. Gregory House had had about all he could take of the PPTH Christmas Gala fundraiser. He was half-drunk and trying to maintain that level of inebriation. There he could still feel the buzz and not really care if his girlfriend-slash-boss-slash-professional schmoozer was ignoring him in favor of the rich potential donors she was trying to impress. She had warned him on the way to the black-tie affair that this was a very important event for the hospital and she was hoping to impress past and potential donors in order to raise enough money to begin development on her personal baby: a new wing to the hospital dedicated to women's health. In other words she'd told him to be on his best behavior and stay away from her for most of the evening—unless, of course, she needed him for something; then he was to come running with his tail between his legs, her own personal gigolo-lap dog hybrid.

In the early months of their relationship House had pretty much bent over backwards to do whatever he needed to in order to keep their volatile relationship alive. That included going against his natural instincts and way of doing things in the diagnosis and treatment of his patients—something he'd never done for anyone before. Likewise he'd held his tongue when talking with frustrating or downright stupid patients and their families, planning a stupid double-date with Wilson and Sam that he thought Lisa Cuddy would enjoy only to be disappointed with her negative reaction, giving in and hiring a third year medical _student _who happened to be a genius with scruples so rigid that the threatened the functioning of his team, and babysitting Cuddy's brat daughter only to discover the kid had swallowed a dime which meant he and Wilson spent a couple of days hoping it didn't end up killing the kid. In essence he'd become Lucas Douglas, Cuddy's previous fiancé, only with a bigger dick and greater skill at using it.

He'd begun to tire of being controlled and manipulated by her; House began to hate the man he was becoming around her. The beginning of his alienation of affection began with Cuddy's expectation that he put her opinions and feelings ahead of the saving of his patient's life. If he had listened to her and not performed a certain procedure that was risky but the only chance his patient had had, he would have died. He'd sought out Wilson's advice and the oncologist, his best friend, had told him that no matter what he did there would be negative consequences so he had to choose the lesser of the two evils: obey Cuddy and allow his patient to die but retain her good will (and thus access to her love muffin) or disobey her and perform the procedure, save his patient's life but piss her off and possibly destroy their relationship (and lose access to said love muffin). It had been a difficult choice but he'd chosen to put a human life over his girlfriend's feelings. She'd given him the cold shoulder, thus necessitating many cold showers, for a week, holding out until he grew that their relationship was falling apart; at that point he gave in and apologized for lying to her and going against her orders. Then she had been willing to sleep with him again. She had got her own way again so everything was well. What she didn't know was that he had lied about being sorry—because he wasn't. He still believed he'd done the right thing and that she had been incredibly self-centered and narcissistic over the whole situation.

What had solidified his resentment of Cuddy's controlling behavior had been what had happened the same day he'd apologized to her and after. Wilson's live-in girlfriend, Sam Carr, had left the oncologist because he hadn't believed her over the concrete evidence against her concerning her treatment of her patients. He'd proposed marriage to her that same day only to be run out on. Emotionally wounded Wilson had come over to House's apartment for someone to talk to and be consoled by. House had been there for him with past break-ups so it hadn't been unreasonable of him to believe the diagnostician would be there for him then. However, it also had happened to be the first night Cuddy had been willing to sleep with him after the détente had been reached with House's phony apology and she had been on her way over to have sex when Wilson dropped by. House had been thinking with his dick at the time, he conceded, and had sent Wilson away when he was so depressed. Feeling guilty about that House hadn't been able to 'perform' as well as usual, frustrating his girlfriend who had proceeded to ask him what was wrong. He'd made the mistake of telling her the truth. Her attitude had been one of complete disregard and lack of concern for Wilson (who she supposedly called a friend of hers). Cuddy had chastised House for feeling guilty about putting her first, putting Wilson down and trivializing his feelings in the process. In that moment House had wanted to throw her sexy ass out of his apartment for being so incredibly self-centered and selfish again. Instead he'd taken a less extreme route and told her that he was exhausted and didn't feel up to a second romp, sending her home early.

The next day, Cuddy had decided to give him the cold shoulder until he apologized for putting her out the night before 'because of Wilson'. House had managed to hold out two weeks that time, but, terrified that it would become a permanent freeze, had eventually given her another phony apology. It wasn't that he wanted to lie to her; she simply was giving him no other choice. She wouldn't compromise on any issue. He had been extremely resentful of her after that.

To top things off Wilson had been brought in to the ER overnight because he'd drank too much at a bar, wandered off, collapsed in the street, and had stopped breathing. A knowledgeable passerby with CPR training had kept him alive long enough for the paramedics to take over and bring him into the ER at Princeton-Plainsboro; Wilson had had his stomach pumped and a gastric lavage had been performed. He had been kept overnight to sleep off his binge and be observed. As his medical proxy (for some reason Wilson hadn't changed it over to Sam) House had been contacted and had been there when the oncologist had awakened with a killer hangover. He'd told Wilson that his Blood Alcohol Concentration had been a whopping point-three-seven and that if that single person on that street the night before hadn't stopped to help him, he'd be dead.

Wilson's response had been to tell him to fuck off before turning his back on him and refusing to talk to him. For a little more than a month after that the oncologist had avoided House like the plague and when the older man had managed to corner him Wilson had told him that if House had really cared he wouldn't have kicked him out just so he could screw Cuddy. House had known he was right but his pride hadn't allowed him to admit it. Wilson had then told House to go find Cuddy and grovel on his hands and knees for permission to fuck her in a broom closet and to leave him alone.

Since that Wilson had refused to talk to House; when the diagnostician had called him for a consult Wilson's P.A. had automatically rerouted his calls and pages to other doctors in Wilson's department. Wilson had also begun to lock his office door and balcony door at all times, even when he was inside working and had refused to acknowledge House's sometimes unique and very annoying attempts to get a response from him. The message had been clear: he no longer wanted anything to do with House; in effect, as far as the younger doctor was concerned they were no longer best friends.

House had been suitably upset by that and had seriously begun to wonder if his rollercoaster of a relationship with Cuddy, which was really based on nothing more than sex, was worth losing his best friend of nearly two decades. He didn't want to end up all alone, but he also knew that his relationship with Cuddy was already on the rocks and wouldn't last much longer. Without Wilson he'd end up being completely alone regardless. Wilson meant far more to him than Cuddy did anyway. He loved the idea of loving Cuddy and having sex with her, but he knew he was really in love with Wilson and being with him doing anything—even if they were only sitting in silence in the younger man's office while Wilson worked on his paperwork—was much more comforting and fun than with his girlfriend (aside from the sex, that is). He couldn't believe he'd forgotten that in his ill-fated quest to please a woman who had been fickle enough to agree to marry one man in the morning and then leave him to sleep with another man that same evening. Since House had been the one benefitting from it he'd failed to look at it in those terms until he was already losing interest in Cuddy.

If things continued as they were, House knew he would end up going as far as marrying her to hold together an illusion of a mature relationship and life. The thought caused him to shiver, and he felt like having another drink.

House squeezed his way past tables and around people to reach the bar. As he did he looked around for Wilson; the younger doctor shown up earlier out of obligation, alone and looking depressed. It was a questionable coincidence that as soon as House had spotted him Cuddy had suddenly remembered she had a boyfriend and had dragged him in the opposite direction to meet some ancient looking prune whose husband had funded a wing of PPTH when the hospital had first opened.

House was now free of his mistress's clutches but Wilson was nowhere to be found. He wondered if the oncologist had done the smart thing and ducked out early.

At the bar he ordered a scotch, neat, and was drinking it when Dr. Eric Foreman approached the bar and ordered drinks for himself and his very lovely date. House had enjoyed the way her gown fit her perfectly in all of the wonderfully voluptuous places as she walked or danced with his former fellow and current employee.

"House," the African-American doctor said to him with a nod. "Looks like Cuddy's disowned you. Right now she's dancing with someone wealthy and influential."

"It's fine by me," House answered before taking a swallow of scotch. "He does the work of getting her all hot and bothered and I reap the rewards in her bed later. It's a win-win for me. By the way, have you seen Wilson in the last half an hour?"

Foreman smirked, shaking his head. "I thought he wasn't talking to you. I probably shouldn't tell you but I bumped into him about ten minutes ago on his way to the elevator. He said he had a headache and was going to get some ibuprofen. If you're going to go harass him, don't. He didn't look like he was feeling very well."

"Drunk?" House asked, assuming. Foreman shook his head, picking up the drinks the bartender set before him on the bar.

"Depressed. He looked like he'd been crying. It's gotten around that his girlfriend left him; I guess he's still taking it pretty hard."

"He told you that?" the diagnostician demanded, trying to appear nonchalant but failing.

"No, but it's not hard to see," Foreman replied. "He's been hiding out in his office, eating lunch there. He forgot his tie one day, looked like he hadn't bothered to press his shirt the next. He hadn't shaved before coming here tonight. I think he's lost weight as well. One moment he's full of energy and almost arrogantly confident and by the end of the day he's in a dark mood. You know. You're not the only person he's been avoiding or hostile with. Apparently he's been short with his staff as well. I can't believe you haven't noticed, but I guess it's hard to do that on your knees groveling to your girlfriend or begging her to throw you a bone."

The neurologist walked away, his jab in the diagnostician's ribs made, heading back to his table and date. House scowled, trying to think of an argument to what he'd said but couldn't; everything he'd said was true. It stuck in his craw to know that everybody else had seen the deterioration of his best friend but him because he'd been too busy thinking up lies to placate Cuddy and following her 'requests' to make her happy. House looked at that image of himself that Foreman had described and was revolted by the man he'd become; or rather, the _non_-man. A man didn't behave the way he had been for the past seven months. House threw back the rest of his scotch, feeling the warmth run down his throat before setting his glass down, grabbing his cane and limping toward the elevator. He was almost there when Cuddy appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, and grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Where do you think you're going?" she said to him almost indignantly, her other hand going to her hips. "The party's not over."

"It is for me," he told her. "I'm going upstairs to check on Wilson. Foreman said he's not feeling well."

Her face darkened. "Is he at risk of dying in the next three hours?"

House shook his head and sighed, then answered, "No, I don't think so. Then again I could be wrong—hence the need to check on him."

"You're not going to, Greg," she told him matter-of-factly. "You've been catering to his mood swings too much lately. So Sam's gone—so what? It's not like it's the first time he's been dumped. Who was he having an affair with this time? Now, come with me. Mr. St. John wants to meet my boyfriend, the infamous Dr. House. He's intrigued with my women's health wing and if I can impress him he just might give a huge donation."

He stared at her for a few moments. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time since her cruel verbal attack on him at the Trenton crane disaster in May. She had the same hard expression, the same icy cold grey eyes, the same imperial set of the jaw. It was as if there had been no bathroom confession, no night-and-day-long romp in the sheets, no seven months of her being hot one moment, cold the next. Seeing her like that spoke to him, telling him that he would never please her as himself, as Gregory House in his entirety. She would manipulate and control and whittle away at him until he looked like the man of her dreams and in the process he would grow to hate himself and cease to exist. She didn't love him. She loved the blueprints in her mind of House two-point-oh—no more but perhaps less that her blueprints for the new hospital wing and the personal prestige she would gain from it. If he refused to conform she would either punish him or dump him. All love was conditional, he knew, but Cuddy's was more conditional than most. Wilson, on the other hand had always liked him for him, not expecting House to change in order to be his best friend. When he'd pressured him to do something differently it had been for his own good, but their friendship hadn't ever hinged on him doing it or not.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons House had fallen in love with the oncologist in the first place. He knew that Wilson would never love him the way House wanted him to—there would always be the women that would come first. That was the main reason why House had gotten together with Cuddy; she had been willing to partner up with him romantically where Wilson never would. Yet, he was unhappy with her—the sex was great, but that was pretty much all they had together. With Wilson he would never have the sex and romance, but he would always have a friend and when he was with Wilson he wasn't miserable. In fact, he came pretty damned close to being happy. Happy, of course, would only be possible if Wilson was in love with and wanted him, too.

With that thought in mind House walked away from Cuddy. She caught up and grabbed his arm again, squeezing harder this time. "House," she snapped, "stay here with me. He's just your friend but I'm your girlfriend!"

He turned to walk away again and she grabbed his cane, yanking it out of his grip and nearly sending him falling to the floor. House stared at her incredulously before an angry smirk appeared on his face.

"Not anymore," he told her coldly and turned around, hobbling cane-less toward the elevator. He felt something hit him across the shoulder blades and then clatter to the tiled floor behind him. He looked back to see that it was his cane.

House also noticed that the party was nearly silent and all eyes were directed at the two of them, but mostly at her—with incredulity or disgust.

"It was an accident," she told him, her voice crossing the room.

House bent down to pick up his cane, his back smarting from where it had hit him. When he straightened he said loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Apparently Lucas dodged a bullet. I wish I'd done the same."

Limping away, House entered the waiting elevator, glaring at her until the pocket doors closed. He reached to rub his shoulder where the handle had struck. He knew that ordinarily Lisa Cuddy wasn't a violent person but he didn't believe that her throwing his cane at him had been an accident. He winced upon touching it. That was definitely going to leave a mark, but not as big as the one on Cuddy's reputation. That was unfortunate and hadn't been his motive, but then again she was the one who had lost her temper, not him.

**~H/W~**

He found Wilson sitting at his desk in his office but what he saw he wished he hadn't. It was something he never thought he would ever see happen in his lifetime. The oncologist was doing lines. What those lines were was uncertain but it was white and powdery. Wilson had jumped when House had barged in, obviously surprised that he'd forgotten to lock the door. He had dropped his straw and pushed away from his desk, but there was evidence of the drug around his left nostril.

"Okay," House said, shocked (and it took a lot to shock him). "Is that why you've been locking yourself in here and pushing me away?"

Wilson stared at him, twitching slightly, and House could see his carotid pulse in his neck. He limped over to the desk. His pupils were dilated. The powder had been a stimulant then.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Wilson answered, his words racing into each other.

"Like hell you don't," the diagnostician snarled, hiding his horror and concern behind a façade of anger. "What were you snorting? Cocaine? Amphetamines?"

"None of your business!" Wilson hissed, jumping to his feet, his eyes darting from side to side. "So what? You're going to turn me in to your bitch? Get me fired? That will earn you a blow job at least!"

House was ready to shout at him but held himself back at the last moment, trying to remind himself that it was the pain and the drugs talking. This wasn't really Wilson. He moved to stand closer to the younger man, then licked his finger and pressed it lightly into the residue of powder left on the mirror and touching it to his tongue. His eyes opened wider than before.

"Meth?" House asked rhetorically. "Are you fucking _crazy_? Tell me this isn't street meth, Wilson."

"I would ask you how you can tell it's meth simply by the taste of it but actually I couldn't give a fuck. As for buying it, well, I can't exactly ask one of the doctors around here to prescribe it for me, can I?" was the oncologist's aloof reply.

House allowed himself the opportunity to scan Wilson for signs he'd missed that indicated his use of the stimulant. His color was a little on the pale side but nothing significant. His general appearance, however, spoke a little louder even in its subtlety. His less-than perfectly coiffed hair that looked greasy and unwashed, his slightly wrinkled dress shirt that was white but not sparkling white, the spot on his ugly orange and brown tie that was likely coffee, the dress pants that didn't have a perfect crease, evidence that he wasn't having his clothes dry cleaned as often, his mismatched socks and scuffed Italian leather dress shoes, signs of disinterest in details.

More specifically was the subtle but visible way his suit hung a little looser on him indicative of weight-loss, a red spot the size of a shelled sunflower seed on his lower lip, something he'd assumed was a cold sore or chapped lips but now realized was a burn from the hot glass or metal of the pipe he used to smoke the rocks, and the two 'pimples' on his right cheek, one on his forehead, one on his left cheek and six just under the collar of his shirt. They weren't really pimples but sores caused by Wilson picking obsessively at his skin, probably because he was experiencing a common side-effect of meth use, the sensation of bugs crawling over his skin. House suddenly detested himself for missing all of that for so long.

"Do you know what they use to cook that shit?" House exclaimed. "You have no idea what that's been cut with. You could kill yourself with a single line!"

"I don't usually use powder," Wilson defended, picking at his cheek with restless fingers. "I usually smoke crystal but the guy I go to didn't have it tonight."

"Usually?" House echoed, his voice quavering slightly; fear prevented him from pointing out that the form of the meth made little difference to its potential lethality. His façade was beginning to crumble, exposing his worry and fear. "How long have you been using?"

"About a month," he answered, avoiding House's gaze.

_Since Sam left,_ House thought morbidly, mentally wincing. How was it possible that Dr. OCD would start to use an illegal and deadly drug like Crystal Methamphetamine? Wilson generally was very careful about what he put into his body. It astounded House that he would be using that poison. How depressed had he _been_ to turn to that instead of just booze?

"How many times a week?" House asked.

Wilson shrugged, moving to his sofa and sitting down. He bounced his leg nervously and fidgeted as he spoke. "Once a day. Sometimes twice."

"_Every day_?"

Nodding, Wilson sighed, squirming in his seat. Even so, House could tell he had a serious high going on and was feeling euphoric. "I felt like shit every day after Sam left me, House. You were too fucking busy to care, or was that too busy fucking to care? Anyway, I couldn't drag myself out of bed in the mornings, I was exhausted by noon. I didn't care about anything. I wasn't getting my work done. I didn't care how I looked or dressed. I didn't want to live. You never noticed. You didn't give a shit about me anymore. As long as Cuddy was allowing you to eat her out you couldn't be bothered with me. I decided one night that I was going to go home and kill myself. I ran into an old friend at the bar, he turned me onto this. I know it's fucked up, but it's also my new best friend. If I need energy it gives it to me. Same thing with courage and when I smoke it I don't give a fuck that you don't have any use for me anymore. That's all I care about. Is it going to kill me? Oh, yeah—and the sooner the better—but in the meantime I don't feel like crying all the time. I feel so good right now. _So_ _good_."

"Oh well," House sneered cynically, "so long as you _feel good_."

Wilson laughed, shaking his head and then an accusing finger at the older man. "You have no right to judge me. You took Vicodin for years."

"For the pain," was the insistent assertion.

"Which pain, House?" Wilson asked him, grinning knowingly. "The one in your leg or the one in your heart? And why _is_ it wrong to anesthetize the one in your heart if it's making you sick and threatening to kill you? Pain is pain is pain. Why do we as doctors concern ourselves with treating physical pain but ignore emotional pain? We're hypocrites! I'm a hypocrite. I judged you for years for taking Vicodin to ease both kinds of pain, probably because I wasn't living with it myself at the time. Oh sure, I was depressed so I went to a shrink and took antidepressants, not that they did me any good, but I had no idea just how bad I could _really_ hurt. Now I do, so I'm treating it. So what if Meth kills me slowly—or quickly, for that matter—because before I got turned on to it I was going to kill myself anyway. This way I die on high note." He laughed a little too much at his own joke.

House had to admit that he'd gone through the same arguments for self-medicating his depression along with the infarction pain. The high was so powerful, so seductive; to lose that heartbreak, anger, and anxiety for a few blessed hours was hard to resist and there were times now, a year and a half after detoxing and rehabilitation, that he hungered for the rush and indifference to his problems. However he remembered the hell of addiction as well—the desperation to always have a stash of the drug; to put it ahead of everyone and everything else in your life; the shame of needing something to deal with your problems while you watch others coping without a crutch; the loss of self-identity and self-esteem, your identity becoming that of the drug you worship; of Jonesing for a 'fix'; the pain of losing friends and family who can't help you and need to drop you to keep themselves from being sucked down the hole with you; the sickness and agony of withdrawal.

As tempting as getting high again was he would never return to it if he could help it. He almost had if not for Cuddy showing up and interrupting him. He realized that part of his mistake with her was mistaking extreme gratitude with love. His feelings for her hadn't been entirely due to that, but it had been a big contributing factor. He knew that the drugs didn't come close to being worth it. He had to find a way to pull his best friend out of the spiral and preventing him from hitting bottom like he had.

House hated himself for not seeing this sooner, for being so distracted with his own concerns that he'd totally missed the fact that the most important person in the world to him, eclipsing even Cuddy, had been unraveling to this extent, had come to believe that he didn't care about him anymore.

"Yeah," House responded, "it's all sunshine and roses right now. Then the sickness comes, the loss of control over your own thoughts, the alienation from family, friends, loved ones, the slavery to the drug, the loss of your livelihood and the source of the money to buy the drug not to mention the physical illness and decay. You'll get ugly. You'll keep picking at your face until it's one giant bloody, puss-oozing sore. Your incredible hair will begin to break and fall out because of under- and malnutrition as well as other potentially lethal and painful diseases. You'll continue to grow disinterested in personal hygiene until you eventually give up on bathing, haircuts, clean clothes—a rummy sleeping in a dumpster will look and smell better than you.

"But beauty is skin deep, you say? How about losing your mind? Permanent brain damage from the toxic chemicals used to cook and cut the meth, paranoia of the most extreme kind, psychotic breaks, lack of judgment and impulse control. Lack of impulse control, combined with the increased sex drive, equals no condoms; no condoms equal STIs. If you think seeing your best friend's dead girlfriend and believing everyone is out to get you is fun, think again. It sucks shit. Then again, you smoke shit so maybe you'll enjoy insanity better than I did."

Wilson began to laugh again, moved over to House and pushed him backwards toward the sofa until the older man lost his footing and fell back onto the sofa. House stared up at him in surprise and uncertainty. Meth often caused aggression and violent impulses but he wasn't certain this was what was motivating the younger man.

"I'm not an addict," Wilson told him confidently; he leered hungrily at him. "I can stop if I want to but I don't want to. If I do I'll lose the confidence to do this."

Before House knew what was happening Wilson was on him, pressing him down before covering his mouth with his own and curling his fingers in his graying brown hair. House tried to push him off at first but not for long as his own forbidden desire was sparked into a flame. His rational mind was telling him that this was a terrible mistake, that Wilson wasn't acting this way because he really wanted him but because of the drug's effect on him but the diagnostician's heart had been longing for this for years and his body's physical response, his arousal, was quickly drowning out reason. He found himself kissing back needily as one of his long-fingered hands grabbed the back of Wilson's neck while the other arm snaked around his waist and he lowered his hand to grab Wilson's ass.

It felt so good, so right, like this had been predestined to happen eventually and the meth had given Wilson enough of a false-sense of confidence and the overwhelming sex drive to finally act out what the oncologist obviously had been fantasizing about. That's what House wanted to believe. After all, meth heightened what was there but didn't create it. Wilson may well have been horny due to the drug but his desire to play that out and satisfy his craving with House wasn't caused by it. He could have just as well come on to one of the half-dozen nurses in his department who would be willing to drop everything to have sex with him if approached. No, the impulse to do so now was the meth, but who to do had been his best friend's choice and he had chosen him.

Those were his last semi-cogent thoughts before his desire and love for the man took over and he gave in to temptation. House and Wilson fought for dominance but Wilson had the unfair advantage of both the drug and two healthy legs. He began to literally tear House's dress shirt open to gain access to his chest and began to kiss, suck and bite at the older man's nipples, eliciting a deep groan from his throat in response. Still, in the back of House's lust-controlled mind his conscience was still telling him that this wasn't right, that Wilson had the physical upper hand but House was the one who was sober (relatively) and therefore really in control. He couldn't take advantage of Wilson this way no matter how hard his cock was and how incredible it felt to have the younger man grind his erection into House's like he was. He loved him enough not to use him this way.

"Stop," House told him, weakly at first but them with increasing volume and insistence. "Wilson, stop, we can't do this. Damn it Wilson, _stop, STOP!_" With all of his upper body strength House shoved the oncologist off of him and onto the floor with a thud. Sitting up quickly House then scrambled to his feet, looking for his cane. Finding it he picked it up only to have a grinning Wilson grab the other end of it, trying to pull it away in a ridiculous tug-of-war that reminded House of another time his friend had tried to stop him from escaping using the same method.

"Come on, House," Wilson said almost seductively, panting, the front of his pants tenting from the erection underneath, "you know you want this as much as I do. Don't fight it! I broke that infernal ice that has kept us apart for so long. The deed is done, we don't have to fight it anymore! You know that I want you and I know by the banana in your pocket you want me. Give into it. You're not going to drive me away. I know what you're thinking—it's the meth making me want you, that I'm high and only think I want this but when I come down I'll come to my senses, freak out because I slept with a man and never want to see or speak to you again. Well that's not going to happen. I have wanted you for years! The meth just gives me the courage to go after what I've always wanted. I love you, more than Cuddy ever has and you love me more than you could ever possibly love her. I can satisfy you in ways she'll never do."

House closed his eyes; he knew if he looked into Wilson's warm brown orbs he would surrender to his seduction song. As much as it pained him to do so he shook his head and made up his mind.

"A couple of years ago I could have gone with this and used your addiction and pain to gratify myself but not now," the diagnostician told him, his voice sounding as pained as he felt. "I know the road you're going down, Jimmy, and I know you think you're in control but you're not. It's the meth telling you that you're not addicted and that you can stop whenever you want but that's a lie. The majority of meth users become addicted the first time they try it and those who don't but continue to use it become addicted soon after. You've been using for a month at least—you're hooked physically and psychologically. You feel like you're Superman but you're not; you're just a pathetic addict like me."

"You _love_ me," Wilson reminded him again. "You _want_ me."

"Yes," House admitted, nodding sadly, "but not like this. Watching you break down from that poison will be more than I'll be able to handle. I'll either leave you or go back to Vicodin myself. Then we can both be together in either a mental institution or a hospice. I _am_ in love with you—that's why I'm walking away. I'm going to do for you something you failed to do for me although you thought you were being kind to me at the time: I'm going to refrain from enabling you. When you want help, I'll come running—well, metaphorically speaking. But until then, there can't be an 'us'."

With a quick, unexpected jerk House pulled his cane out of the oncologist's grasp and limped to the door.

"House," the younger man cried out, "wait! Why did you come here? To spy on me? To dig up dirt on me so you can go running to Cuddy with it? Is she going to reward you with a pat on the head and a blow job chaser, you son of a bitch?"

House looked at him again, his body trembling from barely controlled emotion; meth-induced paranoia—his best friend was further down the road than he thought. He forced himself to meet his eyes.

"Call someone and get help tonight," House told him after biting his cheek to distract himself from sobbing, "or I'll report your meth use to Cuddy, the hospital board and the state licensing board and let them take it from there."

He opened the office door and strode out, heading toward the elevator.

House knew that he should have anticipated what happened next but he wasn't objective when it came to his best friend. His only warning was the scuffle of shoes against the floor before House found himself being tackled into the glass door of his own office. The trajectory and force was just right to cause the thick glass to break and shatter as House was pushed through head first. He heard the sound of breaking glass and felt the glass slice his scalp, right cheek and right side of his neck, stab into his shoulder, collar bone. He landed on his right side and felt dagger like pieces stab into the space between two ribs and deep into his side about level with his liver. The pain was everywhere all at once and actually drowned out the screaming of his thigh as glass sliced and stabbed his hip and leg. Once he stopped moving he realized that the wind had been knocked out of him and trying to breathe was impossible. One lung was willing to re-inflate but the one on the right side of his body wasn't. Even in a deepening state of shock he could diagnose a punctured lung. Warm streams trickled down his face and neck, started to pool under and around his body. From the amount of blood he knew that a large vessel had been cut, perhaps completely severed. His vision was beginning to fade a little around the periphery. House knew in a minute, two on the outside he would be unconscious.

He heard voices yelling, feet hitting the tile floor, the crash and rattle of a cart. Hands carefully rolled him off of his side onto his back doing their best to keep his spine stable. A shard stuck him between the shoulder blades, just left of his spinal column, but it was shallow, inconsequential. His eyes stung as blood pooled in them. He saw Wilson kneeling next to him. The younger man looked horrified. He was saying something but House could barely hear him let alone make out what he was saying. He did read one word on his lips: _Sorry_.

People ran up behind him. A nurse, a security guard, a doctor…Brown the oncologist…Wilson was pulled to his feet and away from him, struggling against those who would restrain him. Fresh faces and hands surrounded him. The grey around his vision was moving inward, reducing what he could see. A mask was placed over his nose and mouth. Hands with dressings were trying to stop the bleeding. A penlight was flashed into his eyes. He tried to track it but he couldn't move his eyes. He mouthed Wilson's name but he had no breath to force through his larynx, hence no sound. He was lifted onto a gurney. Movement. People ran alongside of him. An elevator. His field of vision grew more narrow. Off the elevator and more movement. A familiar face…Foreman…then her, then Cuddy. He felt his eyes begin to slide closed.

**~H/W~**

**Six Weeks Later**

Wilson sat at the table in the common room, enjoying the feel of the sun shining through the window. It warmed his skin when outside it was six degrees and snow covered the ground. He strummed his fingers across the acoustic guitar he held. He'd learned two weeks in that he was calmed more by doing something than by taking Ativan. The occupational therapist on his treatment team had suggested taking up a hobby, but he wasn't into pottery or painting. When she mentioned learning a musical instrument he'd smiled. The oncologist had always wanted to learn the guitar but he'd been so focused on his studies that he'd never taken the time to do it.

Four weeks later he was playing simple melodies but still, it was music and it was fun. It felt so good to do something just for the fun of it; to be someone other than Dr. James Wilson, chief of oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He was learning that he was more than the sum of his parts. He didn't have to be someone he wasn't to impress, to fit in, to feel like he was in control.

Nolan told him he was making excellent progress and if he continued to improve he could be discharged in as little as two weeks. Wilson was excited about that, and scared as hell. It was easy to be him and to cope while in the safety of the hospital; the real world was another matter. He didn't know if he would ever be completely ready to return to it.

Today House was coming to visit for the first time since Wilson had been admitted. The damage done to the diagnostician had been very serious. His liver and right lung had been punctured, his Jugular nicked, many deep cuts and punctures had been inflicted elsewhere on his body. He'd suffered a mild concussion and had lost a lot of blood that day; he'd nearly died. Just as he'd seemed to be on the mend a staph infection threatened to kill him. He'd rallied and survived. Three days before he had been released from the hospital. One of his first questions upon waking up after emergency surgery had been "What happened to Wilson?" Knowing that had filled the younger man with guilt; he'd first heard about it from Cuddy when she came up to Mayfield to visit him. Nolan and he had spent three sessions working through that guilt. He now understood that under the influence of the meth he had been paranoid, easily agitated, aggressive, and violent but that wasn't him. He wasn't the maniac that had nearly killed his best friend. He wasn't his addiction. He was James…human being, fallible, mortal, and worthy of second chances. Sinner and saint—he was both, but he had the choice over which one he would pursue to become.

He looked up at the clock on the wall. Visiting hours began in five minutes. House was never the most punctual person; it had never been important enough to him to bother unless it had been literally a matter of life or death. Still, Wilson hoped he would arrive sooner rather than later. After he'd been able to deal with the guilt he'd realized just how much he missed the diagnostician.

A hand coming to rest lightly on his shoulder caused him to jump. He quickly looked up to see that the hand belonged to Dr. Nolan.

"I'm sorry I startled you, James," the psychiatrist told him with a smile.

"It's okay," Wilson assured him, shrugging. He set his guitar onto its stand nearby. "I guess I'm just a little nervous."

"Greg is supposed to come to visit you today, isn't he?" Nolan asked, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting on it backward, leaning on the seat back.

A crooked smile met that question. "You know he is. Are you here to talk me down? To convince me not to run away and refuse to face him?"

"Nope," the older doctor told him. "It's up to you whether to take visitors or not. If you don't want to see him you don't have to. Do you want to see him?"

Wilson pondered that question for a moment, but he already knew the answer and his indecisiveness now was simply nerves. "Yeah, I really do. I need to apologize to him. I know he read my letter even though he didn't respond in kind. House isn't much for letter writing. Cuddy told me he'd read it. I just wish I knew whether or not he's able to forgive me."

Nolan nodded. "Have you decided whether or not to tell him about your self-discovery?"

Sighing, Wilson picked at a non-existent piece of lint on his hospital issue trousers, silent for a moment or two. "I've decided that I will. Most of my problems have stemmed from living in denial for so long. It's like you said—trying run away from the truth about yourself is like a dog chasing its own tail. I spent so much time spinning in circles and getting absolutely nowhere, resolving nothing. Whatever House's reaction is I have to clear the air for my own good. I just hope what I have to say doesn't drive him away permanently."

"And if it does?" the psychiatrist asked him, raising an eyebrow.

A smile replaced the sadness that the oncologist had been exhibiting. "Then I accept it and keep doing what I have to do to keep myself at peace. It won't be easy, though. I'm scared of any future that doesn't contain him in it."

"Fear isn't a character flaw," Nolan reminded him, "and I'm convinced you have what you need at your disposal to face that kind of future if it should turn out that way."

Wilson shot him a surprised look. "You don't think it will?"

"I'm not stating an opinion one way or another," Nolan answered. "I'm simply of the opinion that you shouldn't anticipate disaster. That's how self-fulfilling prophecies begin."

"Nolan!"

Wilson's head shot up and the psychiatrist twisted around at the sound of the call. They both knew that voice anywhere. House stood in the doorway of the common room, leaning a little on his cane. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of the man. House wore his cap, a Grateful Dead t-shirt with a sport coat over top and faded blue jeans. He had his five-day-scruff back; Cuddy had told him that the doctor attending to him had to have it shaved off to stitch up a long laceration on his right cheek. He looked a little thinner than before and perhaps a little paler, but in general he looked good—very good.

"Get lost," House continued. "It's my turn to visit with Wilson. Isn't seeing you every day to have his brain shrunk punishment enough?"

Nolan rose from the chair and faced him. "It's been a while," he said to the fifty-one year old misanthrope. "You're looking good."

"Cut the bullshit," House told him, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I look like hell. I feel better, though. Seriously, though. Get out of here."

Nolan smirked at him and then looked to his current patient. "Have fun."

Wilson fought a grin at the sarcasm in the psychiatrist's voice and watched him walk away. He didn't bother getting up to greet House, instead gesturing to the chair that had just been vacated. With a groan House lowered himself into it happily. It was obvious his leg was bothering him.

"Nolan's right," the oncologist told him with a fond look in his deep brown eyes. "You do look good."

"You're just saying that because I'm better looking than the nutcases locked up in here, currently," House told him, his eyes looking around the room. "I had forgotten just how dismal this place really is. Motivation in itself to get better and get the hell away from how hideous it is."

A chuckle left Wilson. House returned his eyes to him, giving him a small, genuine smile.

"How are you?"

Shrugging the oncologist answered, "I feel good. A little residual insomnia but the panic attacks that continued even after I detoxed stopped a few days ago. I've gained back five pounds. So far so good."

"Good," House responded. There were about thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence between the two men. Wilson was the first to break it.

"Did you and Cuddy manage to piece things back together?"

House shook his head, looking everywhere but at Wilson's gaze. "Nope. We both decided we're better as friends than lovers. It's good, actually. I continue to lie, go behind her back and avoid clinic duty and she busts my chops while flashing Patti and Selma to torture me. It works."

"I'm glad you two were able to split without becoming enemies," Wilson told him sincerely.

"Me, too," was the other man's reply.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the older man; the last time he'd seen him House had been a bleeding mass on the floor of his office after having been tackled by him. That mental picture reminded him of what he wanted to tell him.

"House—" Wilson began but House quickly put up his hand and shook his head.

"Don't," he told the younger man quietly.

"I have to, House."

"Why?" the diagnostician asked him, raising an eyebrow. "You already told me it all in your letter. As far as I'm concerned we're good."

The younger man shook his head in protest. "We can't be good until I get to tell you to your face that I'm—"

"Say it and I'm out of here," House interrupted again, looking serious.

Bewildered by his friend's reaction to his attempted apology didn't make sense, unless he didn't want to accept his apology; but if that was so, then why did he bother to come visit him?

"Why?" Wilson asked simply. "It's the least I owe you."

House said nothing in response to that. Instead he directed his attention to the guitar next to Wilson.

"May I?" he asked, indicating that he wanted to pick the instrument up.

Shrugging, the younger man replied, "Sure."

House smiled like a little boy who had just discovered a shiny new toy. He picked it up respectfully, looked it over with a knowing eye, and then began to strum it a couple of times just to hear the quality of the sound, its timbre. His smile broadened in approval. He looked up at Wilson with sparkling azure eyes—eyes that made the younger man's toes curl like a fan girl's.

"Nice guitar," House told him appreciatively. "Whose is it?"

"Mine," the oncologist told him. House looked genuinely surprised at that revelation.

"Yours?" he verified. "Have you been holding out on me all these years? You're actually a closeted guitar savant and you just never thought about telling me, is that it?"

Feeling a little flirtatious and playful Wilson answered, "There are a lot of things I've kept closeted that you don't know about."

House raised his eyebrow this time and smirked. "I'm discovering new ones all the time."

Wilson looked away from his friend's piecing gaze and toward the guitar instead. "Seriously. My OT Thought I should take up a hobby. When my roommate was discharged, he gave his guitar to me. I've been taking lessons."

"Really?" House asked with a devious grin. He held the guitar out towards him. "Play something for me."

Ordinarily Wilson would have deferred to his friends greater skill but then he remembered what he'd been learning and discovering. He took the guitar from House's grasp and rested it on his lap, holding it in preparation to play, his fingers on his left hand barely brushing across the steel strings.

"What should I play?" he asked.

"How about a Christmas carol? You missed the staff Christmas party at the hospital," House said. "I have a photo album full of blackmail opportunities on Foreman and Taub. They had too much punch, which someone spiked—and got very—how shall I put it?—_cozy_ in clinic exam room three."

Wilson's eyes widened at the scandalous news. "They didn't actually do…?"

"No," House admitted, looking a tad disappointed, "but the pictures are pretty incriminating and they both were too drunk to remember what happened the next day. Let's just say I have my clinic shifts covered at least until Memorial Day."

Wilson didn't even try to appear shocked at his friend's behavior. He laughed out loud and House joined him. When the laughter passed, he said to the older man, "That felt good. I can't remember the last time I actually laughed like that. It's been at least a year. No, even longer than that. Not since before you were a guest here at _Chez_ Mayfield."

House sobered a little upon hearing that. He sighed quietly and then requested, "Play _Silent Night._"

"I _am_ Jewish, you know," Wilson reminded him mildly. Before House could come up with a comment to that Wilson began to strum out the tune. He'd just begun to learn how to pick out individual notes and threw what he knew into it. He didn't glance up at House because he didn't want to watch his reaction every time he screwed up. The diagnostician remained silent and still, however, his full attention on the music Wilson was making. When he finished he looked shyly at House.

"Well, like I said," Wilson muttered self-consciously, "I'm still learning."

"It's a good thing," House told him dead-pan. He then smiled. "It wasn't bad at all, Wilson. Maybe another time I can give you a few tips that you're _not _going to be taught by your instructor that will make chording a little easier and more fluid."

"That'd be great," the oncologist told him. He set the guitar aside. "There's something that I need to talk to you about." His heart began to beat a little faster. "Something I've been working through here."

He watched House carefully, noting how the older man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, only looked at him in furtive glances and frowned almost imperceptibly. Wilson knew all too well that House hated talking about emotions and motives and deep dark secrets. They made him as uncomfortable as hell and if given the choice or opportunity he avoided such conversations like the plague. Wilson wondered if he was going to bolt and run now. When the older man settled at last in his seat and met his gaze, Wilson was actually astounded. He'd expected something else entirely. His appreciation appeared in his small smile and nod.

Wilson noticed that a couple of other patients had entered the common area with their visitors and their privacy was no longer so private anymore. What he had to say required that they be alone.

"Why don't we go to my room?" Wilson suggested. "It's quieter there."

House nodded in understanding and they went to Wilson room. He was currently the only one occupying the space meant for two. Wilson closed the door behind him. House sat down on the edge of the unoccupied bed. Wilson sat down on his own so that they faced each other.

"You're up to bat," House told him soberly.

The oncologist nodded. "Okay. You know what it's like here—Cognitive Behavior Therapy in the morning, process group after lunch and then one on one psychotherapy in the afternoon. Nolan and I have been working on what happened that night during the gala. How I came onto you…"

"It doesn't have to mean anything," House assured him cautiously. "We can chalk it up to the drugs, an aberration. It doesn't have to change anything."

"Well, for me it does," Wilson told him. "It wasn't an aberration, or the drugs. It was true. I do…I am…in love with you. Before you walk out of my life for good, just…just hear me out."

House nodded and remained silent.

Wilson licked his lips nervously and continued, "House…Most of my life has been spent running away from myself, denying who I am because I've been terrified by the truth. The truth is, in spite of all of the women I've been with…well, I'm gay."

Slowly an amused, smug smirk appeared on his friend's face. "I thought you were going to tell me something I didn't know."

Incredulous, Wilson shook his head. "You knew?" he demanded.

"I strongly suspected it," was the response.

Pondering that a moment, trying to figure out what House had observed about him that said 'gay'. "How did you figure it out?"

"Wilson, a man who goes out of his way to earn the reputation of panty-peeler and has dated half of the nursing staff at the hospital, but has failed at marriage three times has something he's trying to prove," House told him. "If it makes you feel better I didn't figure it out until I spent week after boring week laid up recovering these past six with nothing better to do than watch TV and think. The fact that you molested me in your office aside, every time we were together closely for any amount of time you suddenly jumped into ridiculous relationships, ignored my warnings and actively pushed me away was a big indicator. Likewise, I was the one you always came back to when those doomed marriages fell apart. I don't know if your relationship with Amber would have survived long-term…but even after she died and you hated me, you really didn't hate me. You left because it would hurt too much for you to see me die should something happen to me…the Vicodin, my messed-up head…they all blinded me from those signs. Last year pieces began to fall into place but it still didn't click with me."

Fascinated by House's breakdown of how he came to his conclusion, Wilson had been listening intently. He then asked, "What pieces are you talking about?"

"How eager you were for me to move in with you after I was discharged from this exotic resort," House began, ticking his points off on his fingers, "but after a few weeks of it you were scrounging around for excuses for me to move out—the guy who lived down stairs is an example. Next was the way you supported me after I learned about Cuddy and Lucas, the way you sought revenge on my behalf and bought the loft out from under them, the way you wanted me to be there during your LOD, the way you so vehemently denied being gay when Norah thought that we were lovers, the fact that you knew what culottes were, the way you had 'given up' on looking for a woman after speed-dating didn't turn out, the fact that when I challenged you to decorate the loft in a way that said something about you and you ended up picking out and buying the organ, which you can't play but I can, as that which says something about you; then you gave me those sexy 'I want to fuck you' eyes and sashayed to your bedroom—not the most subtle hint I've seen, by the way. Immediately after that obvious slip that showed you wanted me, which I was too stupid to pick up on at the time, you immediately jumped head first into a relationship with your ex-wife, of all people, and rushed to move her in and me out, pushing me away. You repeated the same stupid pattern you claimed to have become aware of and wouldn't repeat because you had slipped and had come dangerously close to revealing your secret to me. You overcompensated."

Sighing heavily, embarrassed that he'd been so obvious without being aware of it, Wilson smiled sheepishly at his friend. "Yet you came today after I nearly killed you and were pretty much certain that I wanted to jump your bones. Why?"

House rose to his feet and limped over to sit next to Wilson; he positioned himself so that their thighs were touching. The proximity alone was beginning to make the oncologist's head spin, his breathing rate to increase.

"The night of the gala I told you why," the diagnostician murmured, staring piercingly into the younger man's eyes.

Wilson felt himself being drawn into their crystal blue depths. "Y-you mean you m-meant that? You weren't just p-playing along with me?"

"I _meant_ it," House assured him. "I still do. I've never stopped."

The younger man wanted to believe him but there were lingering doubts that he simply couldn't put to rest. "B-but what about Cuddy?"

House's face was slowly moving closer to his. Shrugging he replied, "You were with Sam. I still didn't think you felt the same way about me as I did for you and I couldn't stand being alone anymore."

"And Cuddy made herself available," Wilson added, gradually leaning closer as well.

"She was the consolation prize." House told him. "You've always been my first choice."

"Oh," Wilson whispered and he closed the distance, grabbing House by the back of the neck and pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss. There was no resistance from the older man, who wrapped his arms around Wilson and pulled him into a tight embrace, kissing him fervently. It was hot and hungry while being loving at the same time and was more than what Wilson had fantasized their 'real' first kiss would be like. He felt himself melting in House's arms. He loved the taste of the man, the smell of his skin, the way he eased his tongue into Wilson's mouth, mapping it out before allowing the younger man's tongue to explore his. It was dizzying and exhilarating and made Wilson want to laugh and cry at the same time.

They parted to breathe, leaning their foreheads together as they panted for air. Wilson couldn't tear his gaze away from House's for a second, and the same was true with the diagnostician. They both had ridiculous grins on their faces and really didn't care.

"I love you, Jimmy," House whispered.

Wilson nodded. "I love you, too."

"How long before you get out of here?"

"Nolan says two weeks," the oncologist replied, anxious to kiss him again.

"So an eternity, then," House interpreted, smirking.

"I'll make it worth the wait," Wilson promised. They kissed again, growing more passionate, both of them yearning for more but knowing that they could be discovered and risked pushing his discharge date back even longer.

"What happens now?" Wilson asked a little nervously. He wanted this to be the beginning of the rest of his life being in love with House as partners but he wasn't certain about what House wanted.

"Whatever it takes for us to be together," House answered. "Maybe we should think of making a brand new start where there isn't a toxic history with the people and places around us. Whatever we decide, you're mine and now that I've got you I'm never letting you go."

"I think I always _have_ been," Wilson concluded, embracing him and burying his face in the crook of House's neck, "and you never have let me go."

"So," House said with a sigh, "are you feeling strong enough to move the other bed to barricade the door for a little while?"

"Nah," Wilson told him and shook his head. "I feel like living on the wild side today. All of a sudden, I'm feeling lucky."

_**~fin~**_


End file.
